


/lady and the tramp

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Classism, Dogs, M/M, Merlin's life is a disaster, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Slurs, merlins real name is hamish can you fucking believe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-01 08:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18797020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: The year is 1992, when Hamish swipes a medal of some sort.





	1. /rogue

A great way for one to start the morning is being absolutely fucking bodied by your dad's roommate. All for mentioning he might wanna consider paying some rent for once. Shit scum, the two of 'em were. The unemployed bastard was still sleeping on the couch. But now that he'd taken a solid throat-punch, Hamish figured now would be a good time to go outside. It was one of those particularly awful days weather-wise, where it just rained and rained with no sign of stopping.

Of course, he was well in the shit now, since he'd just gotten fired from his table-waiting job after getting in an, er,  _altercation_ with another employee. He'd like to say it was for a heroic reason, like that the shitstain had been harassing women or something, but really he'd just gotten caught stealing the man's wallet. Normally he was a stealth god, but it was one of those "wrong place wrong time" situations. It was the guy's fault for leaving his bag unattended anyhow. He didn't press charges, but he did get Hamish immediately banned from the workplace, and even if his grandchildren so much as showed up to order some chips they'd be bashed into next Sunday.

So firstly he grabbed a couple newspapers from the local pharmacy, and tossed out just about everything in the trash besides the "help wanted" section. There had to be something that didn't require a college education for him to do, or else he'd have to finally come to terms with that said-in-jest idea of becoming a prostitute.

Then he took his business to the local pub, ordered a pint and thumbed through the fluttering sheets of paper. A lot of engineering shit. He had repaired a fair amount of cars in his day, so perhaps that was worth looking at. He circled a few of them in red pen and folded up the paper, cramming it into his shoulder bag. (Which was often affectionately referred to by his old man as a 'lady's purse'.) The beer was as shitty as usual, basically just foamy piss, but it was cheap, and still better than nothing.

Of course, years of being poor and angry had sharpened Hamish into a halfway-decent pickpocket. Some other man was there, an awfully well-dressed bloke to be hanging around the dregs like this, and he hauled ass to the bathroom to probably take a nine-year piss. Quickly as he could, Hamish dropped the pint glass off at the bar with a fistful of wrinkled bills. Now, thank Christ, the tender was very preoccupied cleaning out the glass and putting the money away, which gave Hamish enough time to grab a small thing out of the fancy man's briefcase. Stupid fucker didn't have a lock on it or nothing, he should've been prepared to get his shit taken.

No money, but there was a shiny something-or-other and a neat little watch that he could no doubt pawn for some amount of money. He then shut the case and left everything as if it were untouched, feeling like an absolute badass and walking nonchalantly out the door.

The shiny doohickey looked like it was some kind of pendant, probably some designer shite. It looked expensive. The lwristwatch did, too. He didn't recognize the logo, but then again, he didn't know any of those brands anyhow. After all, what's the point of memorizing a bunch of brand names if you can't buy any of it? It had a number written on it. A phone number, it looked like. He was deeply,  _deeply_ tempted to find a phone and call them up, but he figured he had better things to do.

Still raining. Fuck off.

It had only been an hour since he went out, but he was already out of shit to do. With no friends, very little money, and now no job, things were relatively stagnant. Another wayward glance at the "help wanted" advertisements. Dog walking sounded fun. Hamish used to own a dog, anyway. A sheepdog named Willy. How hard could it be to hang out with someone else's dog?... Then again, he'd been around five years old when Willy was around. And Willy  _did_ almost break his five-year-old-child arm when searching for a hug. Maybe he'd ought to have a "small dogs only" policy or something so he wouldn't have some meaty Great Dane dislocating his shoulders weekly.

His eye caught that fancy bloke from the bar, who seemed all huffy. Hamish avoided eye contact. Dumbass walked  _right_ past him.

"Hamish!"

Ah, shit. Dad. If only Hamish didn't come to the exact same place every time he wanted to be alone. "Fuck ye doin', man, iss not even noon and yer already goon' fer a beer?"

"Yeh." His father seemed incredibly annoyed. "I'm not goon' buy ye nuffin'."

"If yer goon'ta fuck off, could at least buy a six pack."

"Buy it yerself."

"Listen here, y'li'l shite." His dad got real close, the kind of close where Hamish could smell his breath. "Ye live in my hoose, ye do wot I tells ye. If I tell ye t' eat yer oon shite, ye do it."

"Which one of us 'as a job?"

"Neither." A small increment of money was slapped into Hamish's half-open palm. "Gave ye some extra, git yerself summin' ye like." Then he was gone again. God, Hamish wanted to choke the man out and piss on his corpse. 

"A'm twenny-five, ye twat, I could move oot whenever I want!" Hamish shouted, and was given no reply from the slow-distancing speck of his father. Then he punched a brick wall, which hurt a lot, and didn't make him any less pissed off. His long hair was blowing everywhere, in his face and his eyes. He took a hair elastic from his shoulder bag to tie it back, piles and piles of ashy-brown hair that he wouldn't cut as long as it made his father angry. ("Ye look like a nancy boy. Cut it.") 

He poked into the local ASDA, soaking wet from the rain and visibly angry. What kind of beer did his dad like again?... Did he even care? It all tastes the same. Hamish had existed long enough to know that no amount of cheap piss-beer could compare to a good glass of scotch, which was essentially the ichor of the gods. Of course, he only had enough money left over for a chocolate bar, which was fair enough. He hadn't eaten since, what, yesterday afternoon? Plus he had enough for the good chocolate. Maybe dad actually had a conscience for once. Either that or he really wasn't paying attention to how much he took from his pocket.

The woman at the cash register gave him a weird look.

"You come here constantly. How'n the fuck are you drinkin' six beers that quickly?"

"I doon' think yer gettin' paid to ask me aboot me life." She gave him a sour look, but bagged up his things and gave him his change. It always felt weird getting change for things. Usually he was able to pay just enough and no more than that. He stepped out, and--

"Excuse me, young man."

Hamish jolted a bit, looking to his side. And it was... oh, fuck, it was the fancy bloke.

"Yeh? Wot's an aristocrat such as yerself doon' in this shitehole?"

"That's none of your concern. I believe you have something that belongs to me."

"Look, if ye wann' ta shag, just say so, don't make up bullshit."

The man cocked a brow. "Why would I even want yer stuff? Bunch'a overpriced shite."

"That's a nice watch."

Hamish broke into a cold sweat. "Where'd you get that?"

"Can ye fookin' piss off? Just buy another one wi' yer  _enormous salary_ and jerk yerself off wi' it. Is the wifey goon' be mad that ye lost it? Tell'er to piss off too."

"Young man." The fucker had that old testament stare that bore two ashy holes in Hamish's turtleneck, peering right into his soul. "It's important to me that you return my things immediately, or else I'll have to alert the authorities."

"I need it more'n you. Not goon' t' spill me guts t' ye or anythin', but I'm shite-poor and this thing is prob'ly worth more'n I am."

As fast as one can imagine, the man got hands on him, putting Hamish in an arm-lock before he even had a chance to think about it. The watch was unceremoniously taken from him, as his face laid on the damp cement. It didn't seem like anyone was around to say anything. Probably the weather. 

Of course, any good Scotsman doesn't take a loss sitting down, so the moment the bourgeois fuckhead let him loose, Hamish gave him a solid elbow to the chest. Didn't do much, and now he was held up against a wall like a hot chick in a cheap porno would be. "Like I said, if ye wann' me arse ye could just--"

"I know that's not the only thing you took."

"Oh, stick it up yer arse!"

The height difference allowed Hamish to headbutt the guy in the chin, which caused him to step back a moment. In that moment, Hamish made a run for it. Surprisingly, the guy didn't seem to give chase, so he slowed to a jaunty walk a few blocks from his flat. He dipped into his home and then realized that he  _FUCKING FORGOT THE GROCERIES._

"Hamish! Where's the--"

"I didn't. I mean." He cleared his throat. He'd rather die than admit he forgot it like an idiot. "I got a gumball. 'n gave th' rest t' some homeless bloke wi' a dog."

"A gumball? Are ye bloody kiddin' me?"

"Neh."

Then he got decked in the face really,  _really_ hard. Enough to crack his nose, anyway. 

"I can't even ask ye t' do  _one fuckin' thing_ wi'out ye fockin' it up."

"I could hold daen a job fer more than two weeks." That got him a solid punch in the chest. He hit the wall with his back, but still remained standing. Years of this shit gave him the endurance of solid diamond. 

That shithead roommate of his father's finally walked in, blank-faced.

"Did'e get the beer?" The man said, still sounding half-asleep.

"Naw, he bought a fockin'  _gumball_." Hamish's dad got down to his level, so they locked eyes. "This is why me fockin' wife left." 

What happened next was kind of a blur, you know, when you get so fucking angry that things just  _happen_ _?_ He almost got to strangling his bastard father, he could feel the pulse of the man's throat beneath his thumbs, but he was a scrawny little bug and got thrown out the front door on his ass. He was told to never come back. "Just like yer mother." Which he wasn't really sure if the old fuck meant it or not, it was always ambiguous.

It was still raining. He was  _cold_.

Fists shoved in his pockets, he shuffled down the street and  _oh fuck it's him_. That suit-wearing money douche really was everywhere.

"Excuse me, young man." He seemed less stern than before. "You forgot this." He held out the grocery bag that Hamish left behind. Hamish got that pukey feeling the moment he saw it, he felt absolutely nauseous.

"I don't even need it."

"It's yours. Take it."

"I said I don't fockin' need it, dig the bloody wax out yer ears!"

"I figure you'd be let back inside."

Hamish balked a bit.

"Excuse me? Have ye been fookin' stalkin' me now? You freak!"

"I suppose you could put it that way."

"Ye- can't ye jus' find somethin' better to do? Yer in ye thirties, an' goon' around tryn'a stick it up me arse!" The man remained silent as Hamish vented his anger. Extensively. "What, were ye standin' ootside me door or summin'? Ye' some kind'a voyeur, ye git off oon'is shit? Ye want that medal back so bad, buy another one! Leave me alone! Shit's already difficult enough as it is, an' yer up on yer ivory tower lookin' doon on me! Go away!"

"Do you want these back, or not?"

Silence. He didn't even know at this point. Now his face was all red and he kind of wanted to cry, or scream. Maybe both. "How about I go buy you a drink? Just for the sake of conversation."

"I doon't even know yer name."

"Just call me Oliver."

"Ah. My name is--"

"Hamish, yes?" Oliver shot him the gayest smirk in the world. "Hamish Reid. Am I wrong?"

"Who the hell are ye?"

"Oliver."

"Yeh, but--"

"Do you really want to keep standing out here in the rain? Let's get a drink."

At this point, Hamish wasn't fully sure if he had a choice.


	2. /money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weird things happen when you accept gifts from strangers.

Heading back into the same bar twice in one day was usually considered a symbol of depression, so it wasn't surprising when the bartender shot Oliver a weird look. Oliver waved Hamish over to a little booth in the back, and they were quickly attended to by a waitress, as there weren't many other people around so early.

"Can I get you boys anything?"

"I'll have a glass of scotch. Hamish?"

Hamish blinked.

"Eh, I don't got no money."

"I'm paying, don't worry about it."

"I... I like scotch."

"Scotch for the both of us, then, thank you. Are you hungry?"

"Wot? 's fine." It was a little bit embarrassing, being fawned over by this rich man all of a sudden. Was this how it felt to have a sugar daddy? Oliver waved the woman off with a quiet "thank you" and waited to say anything until she was well out of earshot. 

"So, presumably you're all sorts of confused right now."

"Woooow. Ye got psychic powers 'r somethin'?" The sarcasm was biting on his words.

"Well, I consider myself a relatively well-kept and sharp-witted man. The fact that you, to some extent, outwitted me was a bit impressive."

"Impressive? Were ye in th' military?"

"No, I work for Kingsman." Hamish cocked a brow. "You've heard of them, yes?"

"Sounds oot a' me price range a bit."

"A tailor. Of only the finest bespoke suits."

"Ah, yes. I'm sure the suits tought ye how t' brawl. I'm not a fookin' idiot, man."

"Oh, I don't think that at all. Actually, quite the contrary." Oliver leaned his cheek into his palm. "Your years in car repair and tinkering seemed awfully impressive. And sleight-of-hand is a rare gift in this day and age."

"Okay, I need ye t' tell me how ye know all this shite."

"I have my ways." Oliver stared at his fingernails. "Anyway, I was thinking I could give you a job with us."

"As a tailor?"

"Well, we don't just do tailoring, you know." Hamish looked just as confused as he felt. "Have you ever seen a spark in someone before? That energy, that passion, that potential energy? I think I saw it in you."

"Yes, I'm sure ye did. Wot drew ye in? Is it that I weigh only forty-nine kilo and ye won't 'ave any problems trappin' me in yer basement?" Hamish rose his brows, and Oliver did as well in return. "Ye really think I believe ye want me t' be a  _battle tailor_ or wha'ever because I fookin' robbed yer dumb arse blind while y'were takin' a shite?" 

"I just know what I want when I see it."

"Ye soond like a homosexual. I ain't goon' tae become the resident shaggin' pillow fer yer bruvs at the tailor."

Oliver was about to speak when the scotch arrived. The waitress gave them a friendly look and walked off.

"Do you really need me to prove this is for more than just... sexual relations?"

"Yeh, I got no reason t' believe yer more than jus' a common stalker."

"You used to own a dog named Willy."

Hamish nearly choked. "Your mother's name is Adelaide, she was an unlucky prostitute who got pregnant, she married your father shortly and then left. You repaired cars and bicycles instead of attending college, you're irrationally afraid of thunder, and you studied art history as a hobby. Are you alright?" 

"I just--" Hamish coughed a mouthful of scotch onto his shirt. "Fuck me, man. How'd ye find oot all this shite? I dunnae how comf'terble I am wi' ye knowin' all this."

"I'm a Kingsman." Oliver took a sip of his scotch. "See, a spot just opened up and every member of the 'staff' is told to pick someone that seems capable of taking that spot. There's a rigorous and competitive recruitment process and one lucky person gets that spot. The one I want is you."

"But like, wot d'ya do?"

Oliver lowered his voice.

"Do you like spy movies?" Hamish's jaw nearly dropped. He didn't need any help putting two and two together at that point. "See, this opportunity could be a big deal for you. A new job, a new lease on life, you'll probably even be able to move out of that cheap old flat you live in."

"Ye really think so?"

"I know so."

* * *

 

The distance to get to the tailor shop was a long one. In a store like that, with all this expensive stuff, Hamish felt out of place. Like he'd ought to go back outside into the rain and find a neat little bench to sleep on, maybe. Oliver waved him over to the front desk, and they entered one of the fitting rooms.

Hamish always hated looking at himself. Sunken eyes, jutting collarbones and spindly hands. 

"I don't think I belong 'ere."

"Nonsense." Oliver placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you didn't belong here, I wouldn't have invited you. Can you pull on that hook there?" Hamish's eyes shifted towards a golden coat-hook, which he grabbed onto. It shifted, as a switch, and suddenly the floor began to descend. A hidden elevator. Hopefully nobody would accidentally hang something heavy there, they'd get a real shock. It was a nice, slow motion. Hamish sat on the carpeted floor, feeling oddly serene in this moment.

"This shet's unreal."

"It's definitely real. Though I can pinch you if you think it'd help." Hamish held out a hand, and Oliver gave it a pinch. "You're wincing."

"Yeh, that hurt."

"Alright, get up, we should almost be there."

Hamish rose to his feet, and was greeted by a metal-walled hallway of some sort. He followed close behind Oliver, as they then entered another hallway with a few other rooms sticking off of it. What was this, some kind of advanced apocalypse bunker?

"Gawain!" Someone shouted from down the hall. An old man. "Just on time. Presumably, this is your recruit?"

"Yes. Hamish, this is Arthur. Arthur, Hamish, Hamish, Arthur."

"Wait," Hamish blinked dumbly. "So is yer name Gawain or Oliver? Is his real name Arthur?"

"Don't worry about it." 

Arthur looked Hamish up and down, visibly wrinkling his nose a bit, and then ushering him into a long room. The room was full of small beds, lined up perpendicular on the left and right walls. In the middle, a group of other people around his own age were talking to one another.

"You'll have an hour and a half to get acquainted and unpack, don't get too comfortable." Then Arthur turned, and left soon as he entered. All of these boys (and one girl) were definitively of a different class than Hamish, all dressed in suits and oxfords with their hair combed over. They turned, laying eyes on the slab of fresh meat that was just left behind, seeming to descend on him like starved vultures.

"Ah, yes." The tall, blonde one spoke, looking over at a few others beside him. "I see someone finally came to hang our coats up. In't that right?"

"If by 'ang 'em up, ye mean 'trow 'em oot the windae, sure."

"I'm William. My  _father_ is very close friends with Arthur. I'm assuming you're also close to a few old men." William made a jerking-off motion with his hand, which sent most of the others into a laughing plague. 

"Now, I don't think that's necessary." One of the other boys spoke. A brunette one, a bit shorter than William, but still taller than Hamish. He held out his hand. "My name's Harry Hart, it's a pleasure to meet you." Hamish stared at him for a moment. What was with these rich fucks being so nice to him today? It felt wrong, like this was some kind of big joke. Despite this, he pressed his own hand into Harry's, and received a firm shake.

"Hamish Reid. Ehm, ye din't have ta--"

"Nonsense. No true gentleman was ever held back by his class." Harry folded his hands behind him. "Your hair is awfully long. Why, I don't think I've ever seen a man with hair so long."

"Yeh? Got any complaints, they're goon' oot the windae with them coats."

"Not at all! On the contrary, I think it makes you look rather dashing. Is it bothersome to wash?"

"That implies he washes it!" The one girl shouted, receiving a solid high-five from a few of the other trainees. 

"Oh, stop it. Just ignore the hostiles, it'll make your life easier." Harry stared at him for a moment. "Oh dear, what happened to your nose? It looks horribly bruised. Are you alright? Did something happen on the way here?"

"Eh, I don't really wonna talk aboot it."

"Alright, well, did you set it?"

"Set it? I'm not a doctor, I can't set it."

"Then see a doctor."

Hamish squinted.

"I can't. Don't rub it in m' face."

"Rub it? I don't... Ah." Harry's expression saddened. "That's horrible. Does it still hurt?"

"A whole fookin' lot."

"Please take care of yourself."

"Oi, Reid!" William shouted over. "I think the bender's taken a liking to you!"

"Is everyone ye don't like a bender?" Hamish crossed his arms. "Or a rent boy?"

"Harry, don't fuck him before he gets a bath, eh?" William and his rich friends lost their minds laughing. Harry didn't seem hurt in the slightest for himself, but his expression was stern. He truly was the most mature one in the room.

"Sorry not everyone can be as fortunate as the bulk of us are." Harry looked over at Hamish, who looked deeply perplexed. "We should be thanking our lucky stars every single day for what we have, instead of spitting on those who don't have the luxuries we do."

"Ah, get off your high horse, man. It doesn't take a fuckin' rocket scientist to tell that someone here looks out of place."

"Don't say that about Mara just because she's a girl." Harry grinned. "For shame. Are we living in the nineteenth century all of a sudden, or am I misunderstanding?" William stuttered, and the girl, Mara, shot him a look. The kind of look that says, 'watch what you say or I'll actually kill you'. Harry turned back to Hamish. "Perhaps we should find someplace a bit more private to talk, hm?"

"Yeah, have fun shaggin' each other."

Harry nodded towards the other side of the room, and began to walk. A clean and proud stride, as though he'd never had a worry in his damn life. Hamish followed, slumped and anxious. He silently damned Harry for being a vibrant, living thing. Probably lived on caviar, probably got his shoes shined by hot young women, probably lived in a mansion with fistfuls of silver cutlery wedged in every orifice of his body. And now the other side of the dormitory seemed so far away from where everyone else was. 

"So, who picked you out?"

"Eh, some guy named Oliver. Or Gawain, I think 'e 'as two names."

"Hamish... Gawain is his title." Harry looked at him like he had three eyes. "Every agent here is a knight of the round table." Silence. "Do you know what position you're trying for?"

"Euh... Sir Ywain the Bastard?" 

Harry let out a good laugh.

"Galahad, we're trying for the title of Galahad."

"Ah. 'oly Grail man. That doon't seem like a title that'd well fit me t'all."

"Well, looks can be deceiving. What's your background? What do you consider yourself good at? I used to be in the military, for a short while. My commanding officer said I was the top of my league, and the current Lancelot called me here. Were you in the military? Air force? Navy? You look like you could've been a--"

"I fixed cars."

"...Ah. I suppose you didn't come off the army type."

"'Looks can be deceivin', I thought."

"Yes. Well, sometimes they aren't, and that's fine too. You fixed cars? What sort of car do you like?"

"...Teebird." He paused. "Spitfire's good, too."

"Vintage cars sure are something, aren't they? I almost wish we kept making them look that way. Did you ever have to fix anything that old?"

"Nah, didn't see many interesting cars. I think one guy showed up wi' a Rolls or summin', but he didn't tip, so I'm not particularly 'appy aboot it." He crossed his arms, internally recounting the memory. "I din' even git tae look inside 'f it."

"Do cars have different insides?"

"Not much, but I'm sure surgeons get a kick lookin' at me guts same way I get it lookin' in cars."

"Well," Harry's expression stiffened a bit at the weird statement. Immediately, he moved to change the subject. "what brought you here?"

"I defused a bomb." Hamish lied. He'd rather be dead than tell this rich bitch he was here for being good at stealing. "Not a big'un, mind ye, but considerin' I didn't go tae college it were a pretty big deal back in me 'ometown. That Gawain fella caught wind and practically begged me to run fer the position."

"Wow! That's really impressive. Now I feel a little bit inferior." Harry spoke sheepishly, face a bit red. "See, my father was a friend of Lancelot's, and since my track record in the army was so good, he just kind of asked me if I wanted to be a part of Kingsman." Hamish curled his lip a bit. Fucking nepotist piece of shit. All of these people were probably just daddy's boy, led here through an unwinnable birth lotto.

The two of them chittered for awhile, when suddenly the door of the dormitory opened and another well-dressed someone entered.

"Recruits, step forward!"

Harry shot Hamish an excited look and then ran to the other end of the room. Hamish was much more leisurely about it. The woman who showed up was on the shorter end, with blonde hair cut in a notably masculine way. She wore glasses -- seemingly everyone around the place wore glasses. Hamish included, as his eyesight was absolute garbage. Her body was kind of bulky, though. Hopefully she wasn't gonna fight them or anything.

"Hello, new recruits. You will call me Caradoc. I am the weapons technician around here, and it's also my job to train you all. Now I'm sure you've noticed those things at the end of your beds." Hamish blinked dumbly, looking over. Some kind of... green thing. He hadn't been paying good attention at all. "Now. I'd hope that one of you can tell me what those are. Raise your hands. Yes, Mara, you."

"Body bags, ma'am."

"Exactly. Now, you will get a pen. You will write your name on one body bag, and your home address." Hamish swallowed, but everyone else was remarkably passive. "If you die during your training, your body goes in that bag. If you die during your service as Galahad, your body goes in the bag. If you die, from hereon out, that's where you go. Your family will be informed, and for all you know, I'll shove your next of kin in here, too."

"I'm sorry, what?" Hamish blurted out. Caradoc looked at him over the rims of her glasses. "I wasn't informed I'd be dyin'."

"You won't be, if you're smart. Feel free to mosey on home if need be." Caradoc's expression was ever-unchanging, and Hamish's chest tightened.  _Home_. He didn't... he didn't have one anymore, did he. No money, his father didn't want anything to do with him... suddenly, the idea of dying didn't seem so bad. He shook his head, and Caradoc smiled. "I congratulate you on your honesty. Working the fear out, the emotion, it makes everything so much more easier in the field. 's why I hang a punching bag in my room."

"Ehm, thanks."

"Don't disappoint me, now. I'll wake you all up tomorrow."

She turned and left. Hamish took the pen buried beneath the bag and wrote out his name. For home address, he just put 'N/A'.


	3. /hot water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very rude awakening ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally we get to meet our Villain Du Jour

_Hamish was buried knees-deep in sand. He couldn't move his feet, not even a bit. Someone was building a sand hill around him. He looked down and he saw himself, much smaller. The waves crashed in and swallowed up his former self. He reached out, but couldn't step forward. The sound of water trickling was all that remained. He was--_

Hamish woke in a cold sweat. He coughed, and sat up. There was this... water sound. Which was obnoxious, since he was busting for that post-sleep piss everyone takes first thing in the morning. Though by "morning", he really meant "three in the morning". Regardless of the time, he kicked out his legs over the side of his bed and stepped down into... ankle-deep, freezing cold water? Was he still dreaming?

"Wot'n the fook..."

He was unsure of what was happening. A flood? That seemed unlikely. The water rose to his calves, then his knees, far too fast. He turned on a light, and realized the room was slowly  _filling_ with water. As it collected around the mattresses and sheets, the others began to wake up in a panic. Hamish crawled onto his bed and stood, keeping his head close to the ceiling, which seemed to be the general consensus amongst the new recruits. William, Mara and a handful of others were looking at each other, all knowingly and shit. Harry, who had taken residence just across the aisle, stared at Hamish nervously. He held out a hand. "We can't bloody shake hands, we're goon' tae die!"

The water level was rising, up to around their bodies, and handfuls of other trainees were suddenly swimming past. Where were they going? Oh god. He was seriously going to die.

"Please, I need you to trust me." The panic was alive in Harry's eyes, and though Hamish really didn't trust him at all, there wasn't much he could do. He held a hand out to Harry, who immediately grabbed hold and dragged Hamish into the water. It was ice cold. The air pocket at the top of the room was steadily decreasing, and he pushed to move upward, but Harry held him down close to the floor. This motherfucker, he was trying to  _drown_ him! Hamish attempted to shout, but it all came out as bubbles. Harry was pushing him to the showering area, where everyone was collected for whatever reason. Hamish was prepared to take a good rest in that fucking body bag and leave behind a curse in Harry's name. Harry shoved him down towards one of the toilets, and there wasn't enough air left in the room for Hamish to even think of going up for a breathe. 

Harry shoved the metal tube in Hamish's mouth, the latter immediately taking a puff of stale, disgusting air.

He... wasn't being drowned?

The others, who took up a similar strategy, all looked at Harry and Hamish with absolute disdain. Harry wasn't handling one of the shower tubes, instead advancing towards the mirror. He tapped on it, then taking one of the detached shower heads and bashing against it. It cracked, dented, and then opened into a room in the back.

Water flowed through the broken two-way mirror, forcing everything and everyone out with it. People fell on top of one another, Hamish shoved unceremoniously up against a wall. Caradoc was there, standing proudly in a yellow raincoat with her hands in her pockets. Everyone got out a few good coughs and hacks, even a couple sneezes, and then shuddered in the presence of the A/C unit, though none of them felt comfortable huddling together.

"You all suck at communicating." Caradoc said, openly. "But I commend you on knowing that old trick. The tube of a shower head, if curved through the u-bend of a toilet pipe, can be used as an infinite air supply. And I commend Harry in particular for his excellent teamwork skills  _and_ recognizing a two-way mirror. The rest of you? Balls to you. You can use the backup dorms, go get dried off and go back to bed."

"Hold on," Hamish stood, hair wet and slicked over his shoulders. "why was I not informed of this bloody trick 'forehand, I could'eh died."

"You weren't informed because I didn't tell you. It's my job to command the training, but it's on you to know what you're doing."

"Yeah, Reid." Mara spoke. "It's your fa--"

"Don't think just because I'm chewing him out, it means the rest of you are off the hook. By all accounts, you left one of your own in the shit to die. I'll throttle you all if you keep sitting in front of me, move along." Hamish prepared to turn and leave, but ended up slipping and falling on his face. Everyone else laughed, but not as much as they would have if they hadn't all almost died just a few minutes ago. Through the door was a dorm of an almost identical nature with some towels stacked up in a corner. They were warm, and fluffy, Hamish wasn't ashamed to wrap himself in one like a small child at a swimming pool.

"Well ain't that cute." William spoke. "Harry risked himself to save his boy-toy, huh."

"It was the right thing to do. A true gentleman would know that much." Harry was firm in his speech, but calm.

"Yeah, or a retard. He's on his last legs anyway, just let nature take its course, why don't you?" William motioned towards Hamish, who was silent. "He's built like a starvin' African child, may as well save him the humiliation."

"He's almost certainly more qualified than you are, starving child body or not."

"Listen, I know you're into some weird stuff, but come on. He doesn't even know basic shit, that shower head trick is basic math for a Kingsman."

"Hey." Hamish spoke, chest tight all over again despite no water being in his lungs. "...I just wanny go tae bed. Can we do this later, maybe?"

"What are you doing here, man?" William addressed Hamish, looming over him as a skyscraper would. "Kingsman is an elite agency. You're a chav that can barely even speak English, let alone become Galahad. Why even bother trying?"

"I..." Hamish didn't have a good answer. Instead he turned, tugged his wet boxer shorts down, and gave a half-hearted "kiss my arse" before crawling back into a new, dry bed. He could hear Harry laugh a little, but his physical statement didn't do much for his or William's ego.  _What are you doing here?_

* * *

 

Somewhere, in another part of England, a young lady was making plans.

Sascha Orly, major celebrity in the arts and self-proclaimed futurist, sat in her bowl-curved chair, which had a back that stood high over her head. In the dark, if she wore black, it made her shoulders look absolutely enormous. She wanted to appear threatening, as she had a penchant for things that could be considered "ultra-violent". Her high ponytail made her look taller, and it was lush and bushy and golden-yellow. 

Her beau entered, a young sir named Billy. Now it wasn't his real name, Sascha and most others couldn't be arsed to pronounce his real name. He was a yakuza child, pure-blooded, and the two had fallen for one another when Sascha was hosting an art exhibition overseas. He also was a blonde, though his bleached a diamond-sharp platinum, fuzzy enough that he did look like a certain Billy from the 80's. He sauntered towards Sascha's desk, pulling up one of her many egg-shaped chairs and sitting down across from her. His finger met one of her round hoop earrings and drew circles within it. Billy was legally blind, so often he did things like that.

"New hoops. I like them." They showed as red-silver blobs in his shaky vision.

"Do ya, now? Well 'as good, 'cos they cost me, like, a whole lot." Sascha stood, rounding the corner of the wide table and sitting in Billy's lap. Her face tinted with rouge, but otherwise pale as fresh-fallen snow. "What brings you 'ere for this surprise visit, oh my lovely?"

"Oh, well." Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out a brooch. It was shaped like an eye. "I got my hands on this and thought you might appreciate it. I think it's an eye?"

"Exactly what it is. You do me well, my dear." Sascha attached it to her red-and-black striped shirt, which hung loosely over her arms in a size just a bit too big. "You are as diamonds are to a jeweler. As bodies are to a coroner."

"Uh, thank you." Billy went a tad red, giving Sascha a kiss on the cheek. "So I see you emptied out your back wall." He motioned towards the wall behind her chair, which was now wholly naked other than a velvety-red wallpaper. "Where'd all the paintings go?"

"Put 'em in storage. I finally realized the one thing I want up there." She held her arms out. "The sole centerpiece to my workspace -- Picasso's  _Guernica_." She turned on her red heels, excited as a child on his birthday. "Doesn't the explosions, the fire, the bodies, doesn't it just make you excited? Krovvy spil't all down the streets of Guernica right before everyone's eyes."

"I... I know you like taking small paintings, but. That thing is huge. Enormous." Billy exaggeratedly threw his arms out sideways. "Good luck getting your hands on it. It's not going to happen."

"Oh, but you believe in me, don't you?"

"You can't just go stealing  _Guernica_. It's the size of that entire wall."

"What makes you say so, o Billy of the doubts?"

"I mean, even if you somehow manage to get your hands on it, which is unlikely, you'll never be able to bring it out without being caught."

"You're right! Oh, shame! Oh shame and inhumanity!" Sascha threw herself over her desk, dramatically drawing a hand to her brow. "Disgraced again by the lord himself, both his naughty fingers wedged perfectly into my rectum as a lover would! Shame, shame, shame of it all!" She was obviously being overdramatic. Immediately she sat, expression flat as a board. "You really didn't think I meant I wanted to take him for real, did you?"

"Um, I guess I kind of did."

"No way I could. Can you clean out the home in Naples? I'm going to need it."

"What for?"

"For  _Guernica_."

"I... okay." Billy shoved his hands in his pockets and walked towards the door, but was called to.

"Wait, wait, wait! Before you go, can we make love on the desk?"

"Uh... I'm a little busy, but we can do it later if you want."

"Yes! Perfect! See you for the old in-out, love!"

"Love you, honey."

"I love you bunches, I do!"

* * *

Hamish, unfortunately, woke with a crick in his back and a headache. Everything was still horrible, and nothing had really solved itself in the slightest. Everyone else was already dressing and brushing their teeth, which probably meant he'd only have time for one or the other. Hastily, he wrapped a towel around his waist. He stood on shaking legs, stomach still feeling full of rocks, and staggered over to the faucets for a quick tooth-brushing. He may have stolen some of Mara's toothpaste. No big deal.

"Morning to you." Harry seemingly appeared next to him. "I couldn't get a wink since what happened earlier. I wish we had been woken up beforehand. Though being commended by Caradoc felt awfully nice."

"Yeh, I'm sure it did."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel inferior or anything."

"Don't have to. 'm the lowest as it is."

"Absolutely not! You defused a bomb, that's wildly impressive in my eyes."

"I guess." It was hard to be proud of something that was, in fact, a total lie. "Wot's the brekkie situation, I'm starvin'. Could eat a horse if y'asked me tae."

"No idea, actually. Wouldn't mind some French toast this morning."

Caradoc entered, silently motioning towards everyone with a little nonverbal 'follow me' command. Immediately everyone filed out, and Hamish quickly threw on a large t-shirt and some shorts, following behind everyone else. There was a half-awake five-minute group shuffle, and they arrived at some kind of meeting hall. They had a little food table set up with some various breakfast foods, which everyone except Hamish reacted nonchalantly to. Hamish, on the other hand, ran over like he hadn't eaten in a month and practically took one of everything.

Food. God, when was the last time he'd eaten real food? Everything looked so damn good. Utensils were for losers, Hamish proudly ate with his hands. Oh fuck, breakfast sausage.  _Who doesn't love breakfast sausage?_ Harry sat down next to him, with the previously-discussed French toast on his plate, which Hamish took a piece of.

"That was mine..." Harry whined a little bit.

"Show some bloody charity, I been livin' on frozen shite for long as I can remember."

"I mean, I understand, but--"

"Do ye? Do ye really?"

"...but I implore you to have some manners. After all, 'manners maketh man' and so on."

"Manners? When they give me free food, I'll start havin' some manners."

"Well. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because what's more on-brand for me than a futurist painter goblin who speaks in nadsat and has a hot yakuza boyfriend


	4. /willy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get to choose your own dog.

Willy had always been a good dog. Protective of his owner's child, who liked to sleep next to him by the fire. He was smart, and stalwart, with a soft coat of fur and a big heart. His owner, Adelaide, would take him out on long walks and loved him very much, and her husband did too. Everyone was happy when Willy was around, and everything was comfortable. It was all the picture of what a family should be: Two parents, a child, and a big dog.

At the very least, that was Hamish's perception of Willy the dog. He was around when things were good and easy, and thus Willy became his image of happy times. He kept an old faded photo of the fabulous pooch in his wallet, which also featured a younger version of himself, still bright-eyed and looking towards the future. The dog absolutely dwarfed him in size. He died when Hamish was around 7 or 8 years old, as he'd already been getting on in years when he was born and far outlived what anyone had expected of him. He was cremated, and the ashes were tucked into a little box with his name and a photo of him attached to it. Mom took that box with her when she left.

Hamish hadn't had a pet since. When they moved to England with old Toby, that bastard roommate of his, money hastily became tight and keeping anything more complex than a rock or moss ball would be abuse, plain and simple. A shame, really. With no friends to hang out with and no good family to come home to, he suddenly missed Willy more than ever, despite having been so young when he was around.

What aroused this sudden line of thinking, of course, was something he heard one of those Kingsmen say. Something about a "dog test". He'd been knocking about in the dormitory and heard it around a corner. He recognized Caradoc's voice, but none of the others, which there had to be around three others present. Something about some large-scale gallery opening, nothing that really drew his interest, but a "dog test" pulled him in. He'd hardly even seen a dog since he was young, and when people were walking them, he was far too nervous to ask if he could pet. The people of London town were crotchety old bastards and just wanted to get back inside.

He'd been sitting on his bed drawing for about an hour by then when suddenly Harry came 'round.

"Well, isn't that a lovely drawing! Is that your dog?" He motioned towards the photo from which Hamish was working.

"Used t' be."

"Do you do art?"

"I dabble. More of an 'obby than anythin'." Besides, it looked rather messy, everything was just an inch out of place. Not that Harry could probably tell any of that stuff.

"It's very impressionistic, I feel. All 'stream of consciousness' and the like, if you will."

"Doon't flatter me." Hamish closed his notebook, which was just the average composition note with lined paper and the works. Even had a marbled cover, and a space for 'Name' and 'Subject'. "If it were impressionist, it would'ah taken me no more'n fifteen minutes."

"Well, regardless of what it is, I like it." Harry's hands were folded in his lap, proper. 

"Uhm." Hamish cleared his throat. "Thanks fer, uh, savin' me this mornin'. Dunnae why ye did it, but ye did, and 'as wot matters, I guess."

"Why I did it? You're one of our own, Hamish, a human being. If I were to leave you behind, wouldn't that make me no different from a, uh, a Nazi or something?"

"That seems a bit extreme of a comparison."

"When I was in the military, we were all told never to leave a man behind. I stand by that. People of all sorts of classes and backgrounds and races, working together on the same level. It was oddly blissful, in a way. Once you're behind the butt of a gun, it doesn't really matter who you are."

"So the only way fer me t' be equal is t' go inny the war? I'd rather stay 'ome."

"Well, certainly, Kingsman doesn't discriminate, either. Otherwise we'd both be out." 

Hamish had no clue what would be keeping Harry out of Kingsman, but maybe he was a Jew or something. By blood, Hamish himself was a Jew, though he didn't really align himself with any religion anymore. Especially when they all preached not to steal from others. "It sounds like you know a fair amount about art." Harry changed the subject, which was fine by Hamish. "Did you study art history? What college did you go to?"

"Er, ehm, Cran- Cranberry." Hamish blurted.

"Cran... berry?"

"...I, uhm, I--"

"It means 'e didn't go to college!" Ah, yes, and there was William, back from his morning shower and fully-dressed. "Jesus Christ, you couldn't even come up with a name? Harry, you should'a let him drown."

"What is yer problem, man?"

"My problem? It's that this is an elite agency, protecting shit that even governments don't know about. The Kingsman have been charged with saving the world, and now that power could potentially be given to you, a sewer-stinkin' inbred who had to be rescued by a nancy boy that sleeps in a bloomin' nightgown."

"That's a night _shirt_ actually." Harry corrected. "It's very comfortable, I'd recommend everyone get one, actually." William wrinkled his nose, and ignored Harry to continue his thought.

"Your uneducated arse could get people killed if you work under Kingsman. Not to mention that you've done nothin' to earn it. Unless you're offering Gawain some alternative services." Hamish was silent, because really, he had no good argument. Maybe he'd oughtta go home. Oh, right, he doesn't have one. But he could be putting lives at risk for the sake of his own security. He wanted to express it, how frustrating it all was, but all that came out was air. "Close your damn mouth, Reid."

"He's actually very intelligent. Defused a bomb, he said."

"A bomb? What bomb?"

"Not a very big one, probably got reported on more in Scotland than around here." Harry looked at Hamish. "When I look at him, I see a man with potential. A man who wants to do good in the world, and it doesn't matter where he started. It's only where he'll finish."

"In a casket, with hope." William growled. The door opened and Caradoc stepped in, holding a clipboard. Hastily, everyone lined up in front of her, straight as soldiers.

"Follow me outside." She didn't say anything more, and the trainees did as told.

* * *

 

"Loyalty. Understanding. The ability to work with others. These are traits that define us as Kingsmen. You're all prepared for the dirty work, I'm sure, but it's much more complicated than just walking in and shooting blow-darts into people's throats."

"What's under that giant sheet behind you?" Mara asked. Caradoc grunted.

"Be patient. So, the ultimate test of companionship, of trust, comes now. As you will all..." She pulled the sheet off. "...pick a puppy."

Cages were stacked into a sort of pyramid shape, and everyone stared in awe and excitement at the arrangement of puppies placed before them. Little, big, in-between, there were all sorts. "Now, I'm giving Harry the first pick of the lot because he did great this morning. Which one do you want?"

"The terrier, if you please."

"The Cairn? Good choice." Whether or not that was true, Caradoc let the fluffy pup out of the cage and walked it over to Harry, who took the leash with pride. "Now, for everyone else? You'll just have to work it out amongst yourselves, I suppose." The rest of the group began to huddle together. Hamish, however, remained on the sidelines, and while they were busy talking, he laid a hand on some sort of powerful-looking thing. It was small and cute now, yes, but it's pretty easy to tell when they'll grow into killing machines. "And Hamish has claimed the Cane Corso."

"Hey, arsewipe! We were supposed to be discussing it!" Mara shouted, clearly enraged.

"I never agreed to that." Hamish replied, taking the leash and walking his new dog behind him. The animal was energetic, tail wagging and tongue out. Mara's face was red with anger. That was probably the one she wanted. Well, that was her problem.

"And see, that's why you always keep your ears peeled and eyes on the lookout." Caradoc seemed pleased with Hamish's mild display of trickery.

"An excellent choice." Harry said. "You know, Corsi were thought to have run into battle with flaming oil strapped to their backs during the days of the Greeks. A very impressive piece of muscle, though I prefer something with a tad more subtlety."

"Thanks. Uh, nice, er... Yorkie thing."

"It's a Cairn terrier. Called that because they dug out rock-graves called 'cairns' and took out rodents. They could also take on larger prey in groups. And they hail from Scotland, where you come from. Closely related to the Skye terrier, they--"

"Look, I din't ask fer all the details, 'e just looks bloody cute."

"Well, thank you! I've named him Mr. Pickle. What's yours named?"

"Ehm..." He considered 'Willy Jr.', but that seemed a bit on-the-nose. "Vincent Van Gogh."

"...Ah. What, um, what drew you to that?"

"I just like the man. Look at'im, 'e only ever got paid fer one paintin', and 'e gave the money to a prostitute. He didn't buy 'er time, no, he just gave 'er money. That man was the height of goodness in people, I think." Hamish looked down at Vincent, who was making little huffing sounds. "I want me dog to be the height of goodness in dogs. So there ya go."

"I didn't know that about Van Gogh. You taught me something new today!"

"Th..." Hamish smiled, anxiously. "...thank yeh." He was trying to enjoy the moment when Mara walked by with a dalmatian and spit directly onto his glasses before passing him, which completely ruined the moment. 

"Now, take a little while to get acquainted with your puppy." Caradoc spoke, sitting down on what appeared to be a beach chair. Did she just bring that outside so she wouldn't have to stand? Whatever, Hamish was more than happy to get friendly with a new dog. He dropped to his knees in front of Vincent, who yipped excitedly and ran towards him, beginning to softly chew on his thumb with his un-toothed gums. 

"You shouldn't let him do that." Harry spoke up to him.

"Wot? Why not, it's bloody adorable."

"When he becomes as big as you, it won't be." Well, that sounded terrifying. "He's most likely teething right now, so if he starts chewing on your skin, just draw your arms behind your back. Don't want to reward misdeed, now, do we?"

"Thank- thank you." But then what could Vincent gnaw on? Hamish was at a loss. "I ain't got noffin' tae ennertain 'im wif."

"We could go pet-shopping together if you want. Caradoc said we've got about an hour. Can we take the pups out, miss?"

"Hm?" Caradoc looked up from what appeared to be a Playboy magazine hidden inside of a dictionary. "Er, yeah, go ahead. 'ave fun with that." Harry looked at Hamish, smile plastered on his face. It was a beautiful smile. Hamish hated it. He hated it a lot.

"Buy 'im shite, I ain't got no money. Wot'm I goon' tae buy 'im, a pile o' rubbish?"

"Well, I figured I could pay."

"Y-you  _what?"_

"I mean, I'm well-off enough. A couple dog supplies is no skin off my nose, really, is it? Besides, it'd be good to take the boys for a little walk."

"Are they immunized?" Harry shrugged, and turned to Caradoc.

"Are the dogs vaccinated?"

"Yes?" Caradoc rose her brows, which were both pierced. "I'm not gonna give you a puppy that might go rabid, I'm not an idiot."

"Well, there you go. It's perfectly safe out there."

Harry smiled, and Mr. Pickle gave a little bark of approval.

* * *

The area around Kingsman was nice, much nicer than what Hamish was used to. Him and Harry went shopping, got everything necessary, Mr. Pickle took a piss on the floor, it was all just dandy. Then they dawdled about, most likely longer than they should have, before returning while everyone was getting ready to move along. Caradoc crossed her arms, not particularly pleased with them showing up so late.

"Punctuality may seem arbitrary," She said, "but most explosives function on a time limit."

"Ah, sorry!" Harry held his hands up. "Uh, could someone bring these back to the dormitory...?"

"I'll do it." Hamish insisted. He even held his arms out. "You paid fer 'em after all."

"As much as I think you'd ought to bring all that shit back by yourself, we're running late as is." Caradoc put a finger to the rim of her glasses. "Could someone come get this stuff?... Yes, perfect, thank you. Just put it down with the chair." Ah yes, the folding chair of the damned. Harry lumped the bags on top of it and thanked her. She grunted in reply, and began to walk, with everyone else following close behind.

Hamish had been carrying Vincent for the past hour or so now, as he got all sleepy, no doubt from growing and becoming big. Getting tall in such a short time, Hamish imagined, was no small feat for anyone. 

After a few minutes or so, they approached a long asphalt path, which lead to a large manor. "So, being in sync with your workplace animal is a good thing, yes?" Nods all around. "Which means you all need to get acquainted, and it's time to go for a run. No carryin' your dog, or I'll have you plastered to a wall and shoot you in the head." Silence. "...That was a joke." Nervous laughter ensued, and Caradoc looked extremely disappointed. "...Just run from here to the big ol' building over there in the distance. 'm going back down."

"I think we hurt her feelings." Harry seemed genuinely bothered by that. "Well, I'll see you all!" And with that, he and the diligent Mr. Pickle went forth. William followed suit, tailed by a proud Akita, and then several other people, leaving Mara and Hamish behind. Mara stared at him.

"I don't get it." She spoke to him instead of taking a step. "I've busted my ass for years getting ready to be recruited into Kingsman, and yet somehow we're honestly considering someone like you, just some stranger."

"Ye still mad 'cos I got the Corso?"

"Well, for the record, I don't think you deserve even a  _microgram_ of the opportunity you've been given. Why don't you just go back to the trash-pit you came from? Save yourself some trouble. Take a bath, maybe, while you're at it." A finger twisted through her curled brunette hair, eyes low and judgmental. 

"The trash-pit I came from? Well, it won't take me back, so that ain't gonna wo--" Suddenly, the Vincent he'd just placed in the grass to rest was now running on the edge of his leash, barking at what appeared to be a squirrel. "Doon, boy, doon..." As soon as the squirrel disappeared, Vincent sat back down. While on his knee attempting to calm his dog, he saw the place where Mara's hair-ribbon attached. Vincent watched it dangle in the wind, which gave Hamish an idea he'd probably regret soon enough. He reached into Mara's hair and  _pulled it out._

"Hey! What the fuck!"

"Sorry!" He dangled it in front of Vincent, who was immediately interested, and then shoved it in his back pocket and began to run. After all, he wasn't here for a leisurely trot, he was here to kick some posh ass. The tiny-legged puppy remained hot on his heels, so excited about the bright green ribbon that he was at full sprint. The figures in the distance suddenly were less distant, and Mara's harsh screaming voice became moreso. "Come on, Vince! 'atta boy!"

Full speed, he absolutely rocketed past the stragglers of the front group, who were no doubt dumbfounded. Hamish wasn't strong, but he was fast, and he had stamina, so holding this speed wouldn't hurt much in the long run. The middling runners saw him approach and were quickly passed, Vincent's leash clink-clinking behind him. Person after person, he passed with no problem. The moment he saw the back of William's tow-head, he was ready to push forward, but William saw him. He saw, and made a mad dash, one that Hamish couldn't catch up to on his gummy legs no matter how badly he wanted to.

Presumably Harry was somewhere up there. William shouted at his dog, though not in any sort of abusive way. If anything, the puppy seemed relatively excited. Beginning to lose steam, the only way Hamish would be able to manage at least beating that rich bastard would be a bit more trickery.

Now, Hamish himself always wore his hair in an elastic during most activities, as it was quite long and the winds would cause it to get everywhere. However, he'd have to sacrifice it. Stepping in front of Vincent's view, he then threw the elastic into the grass. William's dog watched it, barked, and began to run after it. While William was attempting to regain control of the creature, Hamish sped past him, green ribbon like a flag sticking out of his ass and dog close behind. His chest was on fire, but the manor was in close range.

And closer it got still, he could even see the little windows. Which was good, because he was just about ready to vomit and still had no sight of Harry. It was almost the final stretch, and the finish was in sight, when he heard an ungodly screeching. When he turned his head, well, there she was. Dalmatian on leash and eyes ablaze, Mara was out for blood.

_"GIVE ME MY RIBBON BACK, YOU FUCKING CHAV!"_

He heaved as she drew in closer, and closer. But he was almost there, his toes were almost on that finish, and he was sweating like a pig in a hot tub.

"Just gimme a--"

"You  **CUNT!** "

Oh, she was mad. Aside from his father, Hamish had never seen someone get quite so mad. He was long since out of steam and in pain. Then he saw the white line, drawn between two vases, and Harry behind it. Needless to say, Hamish had never felt quite a victory like he did stepping over that line and falling on his face. Vincent came up to him and pulled the ribbon out of his pocket. Smiling like an angel above, Harry looked at him.

"Nice work out there."

"Tha--  _ugh!"_

Mara kicked him hard in the ribs, ripping her hair ribbon out of Vincent's mouth. It tore in half, and she kicked him again.

"You're lucky I have more of these or I'd choke you out right here." Her face was bright red, she'd obviously been crying at some point or another. "You fucking lazy, stealin' wank, you take my shit and think you're better than me?"

"Nh..." Hamish panted, still tired. "...I know I'm be'er than yeh."

Her rage was probably transcending the mortal plane at that very moment. She reeled back and spat on his face. Harry shoved her away.

"Stop already. You'd have done something similar if the roles were switched."

Small victories were still quite sweet.


	5. /the proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An event that shakes the art world forever.

Sascha's magnum opus would be big. As big as  _Guernica_ for sure, maybe even bigger.

With small arms, stringing up the canvas wasn't happening unless she had someone else to do that. So a few of her beloved man-sheep took up the job and she added a little bumpity-bump to their salary in return. From there, she sat and watched them in one of her many scooped-out egg chairs. That was when Billy came in, clutching a fistful of papers, no doubt to fool people into thinking he was hard at work.

"Sash, so uh, about the house in Naples--"

"Is it cheested? I want it looking well for my next gala."

"Uh, no. It doesn't exist." She blinked. "Last time we went there, we set it on fire."

"Oh, right..." She laughed, the most beautiful, horrible laugh that god would allow. "Alright, the home in Hong Kong then, how about?" Billy nodded, possibly jotting it down on a piece of paper, even though he couldn't really read it and therefore it wouldn't help a bit. "Ah, that was great fun, everyone nearby threw a bit of a fit, though, didn't they?"

"Yeah. Anyway, I bought some new music." Billy loved music. When you lose the gift of sight, hearing becomes all the more important. Music made him excited, and when he got excited, Sascha did as well. They'd fucked over tables while listening to Guns 'n Roses, with Sascha on top, painted bright pink just for fun. "This one's  _Nevermind_ by Nirvana." He held out a dinky cassette tape with a bright blue sticker on it, so Billy could tell which one it was by color. "Gonna need a new identification system, I'm running out of sticker colors."

"Ehm, mark it up with a highlighter?"

"Did that already." He sat down and rifled through the bag some more. "This one's  _And Justice For All_ by Metallica. I'm really excited for this one, actually, I've heard no shortage of good words about it. I'm so excited I could scream."

"Go ahead and do it, then."

"Not until the working men are done with your 'vas." He motioned towards the canvas.

"Don't call it a 'vas', it sounds rather silly."

"You use silly words all the time."

"Ah. Crumbs. You're right. Go ahead and call it what you like then, and for that matter, like what you call it."

"Let's see here... Uh, I bought  _Pink Flamingos,_  I figured we could watch it together."

"Oh, but dearling, you won't be able to tell what's happening unless I explain to you moment for moment!"

"Well, I thought you would like it." Sascha's face lit up, and she stepped over to give Billy a loud kiss on the cheek, then sitting down next to him on the sofa where he resided. All futurist and modern and the like, this house, with swervy curvy furniture in all sorts of shapes. 

"You sweet thing, you do so much for me and I give you nothing in return. No amount of cutter could ever repay the deed of dealing with me."

"Oh, shit, don't worry about it. Uh, and then I bought an audiobook," He lifted up another cassette tape, this one marked with a black sticker. "you keep telling me to read  _Brave New World_ so I bought it on cassette."

"You sly animal! That's my second-favorite book! Did you do that for me?"

"I mean, we're sort of interested in the same ideas, so I figure it was worth checking out. You've never steered me wrong before."

"That's a lie, I ab-so-lutely have at least once or twice in this wicked world. Like when we both tried drinking straight absinthe and straight everclear. But in my defense, it sounded fun on paper, did it not? Or at the least, incredibly dangerous."

"Everyone makes mistakes." Billy gazed at the enormous canvas, as big as a very wide wall of a very wide building. "What do you plan on painting there?"

"Well," Sascha was grinning all teeth and no lips. "something incredibly for sure. I plan to hold a big important gallery in Hong Kong (maybe) and have all of my previous works there. And some new. With this being the centerpiece, the  _big bang_ , if you will. And every rich person, every modern socialite, every celebrity, I'll pile them all into the building so they can mingle and jingle and make merry-werry as they would."

"Really? I thought you hated those people."

"I was thinking we could get married there. If that's alright with you." Billy's face turned red.

"Y-yes, of course! This is kind of out-of-nowhere, though, don't you think?"

"Well, I want to do a big televised proposal, but I figure you'd ought to know beforehand. And we'll be wed at the gallery, in front of my greatest work, which is currently a blank slate before you." She was all smiles, kicking her feet about. "I don't want some godman to wed us, though. I want someone important, who I like and revere and take seriously. And I begged daddy to just use modern technology and bring Egon Schiele back from the dead, but he told me, the  _gall_ , that it wasn't possible. So I'm open to suggestions."

"Haven't you got any painter friends who would do it?"

"...I have no friends." 

"I couldn't imagine why, babe." Billy looked up in thought, tapping his fingers on the case of the VHS he bought.

"John Waters! Yes, he'll wed us, it'll be a glorious going-on-and-happening of all! Who better than the director of on-screen whore-crimes? The man of the hour? The dirtiest of the damned? Though we'll have to let him out once it's done."

"Huh? Why?"

"Well, you remember what I said about our wedding all those years ago when we were all malenky and soft."

"Uhh. You said you'd wanna set off a-- Ohhhh..."

The tag-team of lovers grinned at one another, then kissing deeply. The workers still stretching the canvas had no choice but to awkwardly avert their gaze as Sascha began stripping her oddly-colored clothes.

* * *

 

Hamish woke up in the middle of the night. There was no water this time. Vincent was pawing at him, which probably meant he needed to take a shit. He rose to his feet, throwing on a t-shirt and some slippers and carrying his boy to the hall. The weather was cold and it was a little rainy, he really just wanted to get back to bed.

"Don't expect me t' do this often." He shook his finger at the dog, who stared dumbly at him in return. 

On the way back in, he heard a bit of talking past a slightly-open door. He could recognize the voices of Oliver and Caradoc, and his heart of curiosity prompted him to peek through a crack in the door. It looked like they were holding some kind of small... machine thing. It was small and flat, like a box of chocolates. It looked pretty crummy, like it was made by a five-year-old or something. Maybe it just wasn't finished or something.

Hamish jolted to a tap on his shoulder. He whirled around. It was just Harry.

"Ah, shet, y' bloody scared me."

"Sorry about that. I was about to take Mr. Pickle out for a midnight wee and couldn't help but notice you making love to a door."

"Stick it up your arse, why don't ye."

"Well, would you like to go for a walk?" Harry tilted his head. "It'd be nice to have a conversation without William interrupting us." Although Hamish's trust in the rich bitch was minimum, Harry did make a fine enough point. And he did seem like the most tolerable person around. Hamish nodded, and the two walked just back outside into the drizzle. Mr. Pickle took a piss in the grass and then they ducked into a little stone porch of some kind. It had a nice little bench on it that they sat at either end of. "So. Can you tell me more about that bomb?"

"Christ, 'arry, I've done other thengs wi' me life."

"Ah, yes, I guess you're right. What's your background in the arts?"

"I just studied 'em fer fun." Hamish gestured a bit. "When I was a wee lad,  I 'ad me an art phase somewhat, me mum got me all these books an' shet. 'course I didn't understand none of 'em, I just fancied the pictures."

"That's fair enough. Who's your favorite painter?"

"I mean, 's a real broad question. I give Egon Schiele bonus points fer drawin' blokes tha' look just as nasty as I do."

"Don't be so unfair to yourself." Harry smiled, his face half-hidden in shadow. "Everyone has someone somewhere."

"Say," Hamish leaned himself onto an armrest, "why doon't all'em other posh blokes seem tae like ye none? I mean, wi' me iss obvious, I'm shet-broke an' got li'l tae show fer it, but ye? Yer classy, well-spoke, well-dressed, yer like a li'l James Bond."

"Well." Harry scratched his chin. "Probably because I'm a homosexual."

Hamish choked on his own spit. "Ah! Sorry, did that need more buildup?"

"Yes..." He coughed, startling Vincent from the nap he'd just started taking. "Fu... Bugger, shet, I never would'a guessed."

"I mean, I figured... since they call me a bender every time we speak..."

"Well, yeh, but I jus' thought they were arseholes! Like, they keep sayin' I'm a rent boy, but I 'aven't ever done it wi' anyone in my life! So like, you know..." He trailed off. "Not that there's anythin' wrong wi' bein' a bender! Me uncle was one, and- well, he died, but that were unrelated to him shaggin' other blokes, yeh?"

Harry laughed. A sunny laugh that lit up the night sky.

"You're well funny, Hamish. I'm surprised you've never had sex."

"Well, I mean, when yer in the shite y' really doon't got time fer it. Sometimes I'd hit on a bird at a club, rob 'er blind an' shite it, yeh? Hadda jump oot a second-story windae once, broke me femur." Harry laughed again. His laughter made Hamish, inexplicably, feel very good inside. 

"I'm wildly pleased that you got this opportunity. Usually they don't even sniff at men without college backgrounds."

"Eh?" Hamish wiped his nose. "That doon't seem well fair, do it?"

"There's a small number of exceptions, but Lancelot gave me the most important of secret intel, and it's that Arthur's a bit... you know." Harry lowered his voice to a whisper. "Classist."

"Ach, really? I was wonderin' why the base is under a bloody bespoke tailor. No shet, 'arry."

"Well, it was news to me." Harry stared at the sky for a moment. "You think it's time to head back to bed?"

"Prob'ly." Hamish slung Vincent over his shoulder like a toddler, holding onto his little dog butt. 

"We should do this again sometime."

Hamish nodded. It wouldn't kill him, after all.


End file.
